


Her Heartbeat's My Harmony

by clairefraser



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, Misunderstandings, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairefraser/pseuds/clairefraser
Summary: Things change after Sam's faux pas during their virtual PaleyFest panel.
Relationships: Caitriona Balfe/Sam Heughan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	Her Heartbeat's My Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> At around the 4 minute and 50 second mark of the virtual PaleyFest panel, before Sam says "Caitríona", he utters another syllable and then corrects himself. This work was born from that tiny slip-up.

There was a part of him that regretted it the moment it left his mouth; just one syllable, _a slip up_ one might say, but that would be a lie. A concert pianist wouldn't hit the wrong note in a song he knew backwards forwards, in sleep or in waking. No, it had been purposeful. In the moment, seeing her sitting there, in the eclectically decorated apartment she shared with her _husband_ , he grew angry, resentful, heartbroken.

He wanted to hurt her, to piss her off, to make her understand how much torment he's felt in the past few years. It's stupid, because he knows deep down that she doesn't care who he wants to fuck, so long as it isn't her. 

But his bitterness prevails and he pretends, acts as though he's thinking of another woman in the middle of a goddamn interview for the show that they've worked on so tirelessly for seven years. The satisfaction that he feels when he sees the way her nostrils flare is only momentary, because then the guilt descends.

Cait had always been a phenomenal actress, and he firmly believed she deserved all the accolades the world had to give, but they've been in such close proximity to one another for so many years that he can see right through her. The mask that fell over her face when she dove right behind her defenses may have been imperceptible to some, but not to him. It was difficult to discern exactly how she was feeling or what she was thinking; he didn't want to assume.

He'd been down that road before, tricking himself into believing that she could love him the way he loved her, and it had ended with her breaking his heart, time and time again. There was one thing he was certain of, that she annoyed with him. The mask remained in place for that entire hour, never wavering even as the recording was shut off and they caught up privately and bid goodbye to one another. 

The most awkward moment had been then too, as Matt and Sophie ribbed him about his faux pas. Jokes had been thrown around about his wandering mind and _inappropriate_ thoughts and they had all laughed.

Except Cait.

She had kept a smile on her face the entire time and then as the laughter died down, she had mentioned she had an errand to run, and been the first to disconnect from the call. 

Now, three days later, as he lies awake in his empty apartment in the middle of the night, staring blankly into the darkness, he wonders. He's entirely certain she had stepped away so she wouldn't call him out for being unprofessional; Cait tended to be straight forward when something was bothering her, but never in a group setting. The alternative would mean that she had an ounce of interest in his private life, which he knows to be false.

He can't control his thoughts as he begins to slip into a restless slumber though; all he can do is dream, about her, about them, and the future they'll never get to have together. Silence is all around him, bleak, bleak silence. As he loses consciousness, a single tear escapes, running from the corner of his eye, down the side of his face and onto the pillow beneath his head.

Not the first he had shed for her, and certainly not the last.

* * *

So many times in her life she'd had to control her emotions, to hide what she was feeling from the world. It's something she has grown used to as a public figure, but it doesn't make it any easier when she's hiding her feelings from those she cares for more than anything in the world. 

_One man_ , that she cares for.

It's all she can do not to physically react when she hears his little slip up on camera. She smiles, laughs, pretends she doesn't notice and uses every technique she's learned in her career to pretend as though everything is fine. 

Pretend that she doesn't want to just curl up into a ball and cry, or hurl the nearest heavy object at her laptop and watch as his face shatters behind the screen.

See it crumbling to pieces like her heart has.

She holds it together because she has no other choice and only allows herself to breathe a small sigh of relief once the interviewer informs them that the recording has been switched off. Some bigger force in the universe clearly has it out for her, because the moment she relaxes, it begins anew. She does the only thing she knows how; dissociate from the situation until it's all over and then runs.

After a hasty goodbye, she slams disconnects from the meeting and slams her laptop shut, hot tears already creating silver tracks down her skin. She crawls into bed like that, make-up smudged and still in the dress she had very carefully chosen for the panel. It's so fucking stupid now that she thinks about it, having wanted to look presentable around him, when the only thing on his mind was another woman. A younger, more attractive woman who had likely never made the mistake of turning away his affections, who probably showed him every bit of the attention and love he deserved.

And here she is, on the wrong side of forty, having already made the worst decision of her life when she told him very firmly that it would never work out between them. She wants to run to him now, has wanted to since that night, throw herself into his arms and cry that she didn't mean it, that all her words were said out of fear.

Fear of having so much love in her life and then losing it.

It's far too late now, and she supposes she should be grateful for this situation they're in, that she doesn't have to see him again until their next work commitment.

She's not sure she can bear it.

Not without a lot of liquid courage.

* * *

By day seven he begins to grow concerned.

She hasn't responded to any of his messages, all links to silly things he's seen online that he thinks might make her laugh, because God does he love her laugh. In the past she would film reaction videos, short snippets of her throaty chuckle as she looked through all manner of ridiculous internet posts he'd sourced for her entertainment.

He's not ashamed to say he's saved each one, listens to them whenever he misses her or needs a pick-me up.

But she hasn't replied to him, not for an entire week. 

The bitter and masochistic side of him imagines she's probably having the time of her life with her husband, doing all those domestic things together that he can only imagine. It makes him angry, resentful and then ashamed, for harbouring so many negative feelings for a man that she clearly loves.

The emotions come in waves and there's little he can do to control them.

He wants to make things right, to check that she's okay and that there isn't anything more sinister coming in between them. 

On the eighth day, he calls her. 

She doesn't answer so he tries again. 

Sends a dozen messages and then calls three more times, always finding her voicemail.

The panic builds, so again, he allows his heart to overrule his mind and does something incredibly stupid. He drives over to her apartment, careful to keep his face covered so that people don't recognise him, and spends five minutes pacing the hallway outside her front door, trying to talk himself out of being a fucking idiot.

It does not work.

He knocks, gentle taps against the wood, bracing himself to come face to face with a man he wants nothing more than to sock in the jaw. When there's no response, he knocks again, this time much louder and strains to listen for any signs that she's home. Again and again, he raps his knuckles against the door, until his skin grows red and he wonders if he should just give up.

But then he hears it, the sound of soft footsteps approaching. 

He prepares himself for what he thinks could be the worst outcome, that she'll slam the door in his face and tell him to go home. 

That, he's ready for.

Reality is far more terrifying.

The sight that greets him when the door is pulled open has him stumbling back in shock. Cait is standing there, looking smaller than he's ever seen her, a silk robe hanging limply off her hunched shoulders. She's thin, and it looks as though she hasn't eaten in days, her cheeks sunken in and her eyes bloodshot and rimmed in red. 

When she speaks, his heart shatters further.

"What do you want, Sam?"

The words come out as a croak, scratchy, like her voice has not been used in days. She shrinks back when he takes a step forward and curls in on herself as he steps into her apartment, firmly shutting and locking the door behind him. When he turns back to face her, she's resting one arm on the wall, a dazed expression in her eyes. 

She looks as though she'll pass out at any moment.

His first instinct is to ask her if she's okay, but it's clear to him that she isn't. He quickly scans the apartment for any signs of her husband and finds that there isn't anything to imply that anyone else is living here but Cait. If something has happened in her marriage to leave her this broken, he'll have a hard time resisting the urge to hunt the bastard down and break every bone in his body. 

But he doesn't want to push things any further if she isn't ready to talk. 

The least he can do is offer her some support. 

He moves towards her and then pulls her into his arms, even though she tries to resist him at first. She fits there, head tucked beneath his chin, arms curled up between their bodies, one palm resting over his thundering heart. Her tears are quickly soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt, dampening his skin, but he just stands there, letting her cry it out. He cups her head with one hand, fingers gently carding through the strands, so much shorter than he's accustomed to.

After a few minutes, she pushes back from his embrace, tilting her head up to look him in the eye.

"You're not really here," she sobs, shaking her head and trying feebly to push him further away. He doesn't know what to say, how to react other than to reassure her that he was definitely standing right in front of her and not a figment of her imagination. Slowly, he reaches out and grabs one of her hands, holds in between his and draws it to rest against his face. He nuzzles into her palm, rubbing his stubble into her soft skin and then _very daringly_ , presses a kiss just below her thumb.

The realisation dawns upon her face, slowly but surely.

He expects her to launch herself back into his arms and seek comfort where it's offered, so when she snatches her hand back he's more than a little shocked. What's even more startling is the very clear look of anger in her expression, and it's startling enough to have him inching backwards.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, shaking her head and then not giving him an opportunity to answer before continuing. "Don't you have someone you should be fucking, you know, since that's all you can think about?" 

She was _jealous._

He’s stunned silent for a moment, and clearly having tired of their conversation, Cait moves to turn away, but he’s not done with her, not by a long shot. In a single step, he closes the distance between them, reaches out towards her and holds her firmly within arms’ length, staring her down. She levels him with a glare but does not physically protest any further; it scares him, how weightless she feels beneath his hands, like she could be toppled over by the slightest breeze. But the sight of her, so helpless and in pain is not enough to distract him from the sting of her words. He tries to contain the rage that slowly builds, anger - that she would judge him this way, make such a comment on his personal life when she was the one who had pushed him away when he lay his heart at her feet and offered her the world. 

It hurts, that he isn’t enough for her, that she still thinks of him as some playboy; someone who isn’t worthy of her affections. He tries to hold back, to remain calm, but his temper flares and there’s little he can do to stop it. 

“Dammit woman, the only person I want to be fucking is you.”

He feels it, the sudden change in the atmosphere, the tension between them; like a band stretched to its limit before snapping. There’s no turning back, no taking back his words, and he can do nothing but stand there, breathing heavily, waiting for a response from her. He expects to be thrown out into the hallway, to have security called on him. 

Coming over here was quite possibly the stupidest decision he had made in his life.

He stills, waits, anticipates the fall out.

What he doesn’t expect is for her to grab a fist full of his shirt, yank him forward until they’re chest to chest, until they’re so close their noses are touching and he can see the flecks of green in her ocean blue eyes. She exhales, and he can feel her breath, hot against his face before her lips meet his. They’re dry and chapped but that thought is quickly pushed aside when she begins to kiss him more insistently, winding her arms around his neck as her tongue prods the seam of his lips. 

It takes all of his strength to push her away.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

His tone is harsh, but she doesn’t flinch. 

“I’m giving you what you want.”

She tugs roughly at the short strands of hair at the base of his head, draws him closer again, and God, there’s a part of him, a _big_ part of him that wants to give in. 

“You said you wanted to fuck me,” she whispers in his ear, teeth nipping at the lobe, the sensation making his spine tingle. 

He pulls away once more, holds her face in one hand, running his thumb along her jaw and shaking his head. 

“I don’t think you understand me, _Caitriona_ ,” he says, watching as she seems to tremble with his use of her full name. “You’ll never be just a quick shag for me. I want you, _all of you_.” 

He chuckles then, shakes his head ruefully, already knowing how this night will end, with him, drunk and alone in his apartment, and he allows himself to let go, to speak from the heart, because things can’t get any worse than they already are. 

“I’m not normally a selfish man, but when it comes to you, God… I can’t control myself. I wish you were mine, mine to hold, to love and protect and cherish. I’m no fool either. I know you don’t need to hear this from me, I just had to say it."

His eyes fall closed; he’s too afraid to see the look of pity on her face. He can feel her moving, her cool hands shifting to cup his face; his senses are heightened without his vision; he can feel her smooth skin, the rougher pads of her fingers, each and every joint. It’s then he realises, that her hands are bare, but he doesn’t have any time to contemplate these thoughts before her lips are pressing insistently against his once more. 

This time, he gives in, kisses her like a dying man, chasing his last breath on earth. 

She tastes like she always has, sweet and salty, but this time there's more than a little hint of alcohol, and he wonders what she had been doing, here, presumably alone, before he came along. He raises a hand, presses it over hers, interlocking their fingers and pleads, silently, to be given affirmation that this isn’t all just a drunken mistake she’ll regret come morning. 

“It was over before it even began,” she whispers, and it’s more than enough to satiate his curiosity, to calm his nerves and give him the confidence to take the next step, but she continues. 

“I could never bring myself to love him… not when my heart already belonged to you.”

The thought of her, thinking of him as he dreamt of being with her, sends a shockwave of elation through his body. It's quickly overshadowed by a flare of arousal as she bucks against him, pressing herself so closely that there's scarcely room for air between them. He winds his hands into her hair, feeling the short strands slipping between his fingers and remembering a time when her curls were long and wild and _everywhere_. Her hands, trapped between their bodies, begin to tug insistently at his collar; the buttons, which had already been straining to hold the fabric together, don't hold up under strength.

One forceful yank and she has his shirt torn open, exposing the undershirt beneath and making her groan in frustration. 

He chuckles, running a finger along the line of her neck, where silk fabric met satin skin, wondering what exactly she may have on under the robe. 

_Not a bra_ \- he'd felt her nipples earlier, hard against his chest.

Before he has a chance to explore further, she's slipping hand down the front of his pants and giving his cock a rough squeeze. His head falls forward onto her shoulder and he growls, deep in his throat, wondering if she can feel the waves reverberating through his chest. 

Her nimble fingers make quick work of his belt, tearing it from the loops and letting it fall to the ground with a loud clunk. He finds himself falling back in time for a moment, remembering the echoing thud each time _Claire_ threw _Jamie's_ belt to the floor. His response to the sound is almost Pavlovian;

then- with only a kilt and tight briefs to keep his erection at bay, hoping she wouldn't feel just how aroused he was.

now- with no more reason to hold back, her, tugging off his bottoms, pants, boxers and all, exposing his cock to the heated air between them.

She looks down between them with a wicked grin, wrapping her fist around him, dragging flesh on flesh, so fiercely it has him staggering backwards a step, losing control over his limbs. Whatever blood had been left in his body had rushed downwards the moment she touched him; perhaps it was his body's natural need to appear desirable to his _mate._

Whatever it is that's between them;

_Love_ , he knows now to be true.

_This…_ is primal.

Breathing deeply and inhaling the sweet scent of _her,_ sweat and arousal, he gives in, surrenders himself to this.

To her.

A pinch of his finger tips, a flick of his wrist and her robe is falling apart, exposing her body to him. She whines a bit when he steps back, needing to take a moment and just see her, take in the glory and beauty before moving any further. Her hand releases him, falls back to her side for a moment before she shrugs her shoulders and slowly let's the robe slip from her body.

He's mesmerised with each inch of skin that's exposed, from her delicate collarbones to her breasts, her ribs and the curve of her waist, her hips and her mile-long legs.

She stands there, trembling, from nerves or cold, he knows not. He quickly sheds the remnants of his shirt, the thin cotton-undershirt and then reaches for her, wrapping an arm around her body and pulling her forward until their bodies are flush once more, his cock wedged between the solid planes of his abdominal muscles and the plush flesh of her middle.

The feeling is almost incomparable. 

He leans down, nuzzling the juncture between her neck and shoulder, nipping at her skin and letting his instincts take over.

"Bedroom," he mumbles, taking the lobe of her ear between his teeth and tugging. 

She shudders in response and then shakes her head. Pushing back slightly, she cups his face in one hand, fingers stroking over his stubbled jaw, pupils dark and wide, filled with desire.

“No, take me, right here.”

What choice did he have but to obey?

He bends, pausing to run his tongue along the curve of her breast, roughly nuzzling at her nipple, before slipping his hands beneath her thighs, lifting her into his arms. Her legs wrap around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, the flesh of his arse. He turns and takes three steps, until her back hits the wall. 

She anchors herself in his arms, holding on tightly as he hooks one hand beneath her thigh, the rough pads of his fingers teasing her supple skin, inching closer and closer until she growls in his ear and tells him to 'hurry the fuck up'.

With a throaty chuckle, he begins to explore, fingers delving between her slick folds, listening to the sound of her whimpers and cries. Cait has never been a quiet woman, and he's not surprised but pleasantly delighted as she squirms in his arms, bucks against him, clenching her thighs and throwing her head back against the wall, her loud moans echoing through the empty apartment.

What he wouldn't give to lay her down, allow her to wrap those legs around his head and taste her for himself.

A veritable feast, it would be.

He grins, despite it all, because he now knows exactly how he might like to wake her the next morning, should things go well and not end with him being thrown out of her apartment, shirt wrapped and boxers stained and missing a sock or a shoe. The scenario entertains him for a moment, fills him with a little dread really, until she rakes her nails against his chest before slipping her own hand between them.

Her arm brushes against his cock as she pleasures herself, fingers dancing around the small bundle of nerves, and he has a feeling she might just finish herself off if he doesn't get on with it.

"Do we need anything?" he mutters as his hands find purchase around her hips, He holds her, fingers digging into her flesh, waiting in anticipation.

When she shakes her head he exhales in relief, lifting her up just enough to bury himself inside her.

"Oh fuck!"

He's not sure who's spoken, him or her, but the sentiment remains. 

She clings tightly to him, arms, legs, _everywhere_ , as he fucks her, driving into her tight, wet heat with a force that has the wall decorations shifting. He's gentle enough to not hurt her, but it's rough and fast and exactly what they need.

Seven years of pent up tension.

He's surprised he lasts as long as he does.

Her nails bite into his skin as they swallow each other's moans and then she's clenching around him, pulling him over the edge with her.

She pants his name against his lips and he finds he cannot stop kissing her, exploring her mouth with his tongue and body with her hands, even as they come down together, the sweat slowly cooling on their bodies. When he sets her back onto the ground, she's boneless, unsteady, and they share a laugh before he sweeps her up once more, this time bridal style, cradling her entire form against his chest.

He kicks off his pants and boxers before they have a chance to trip him over and surveys the damage. Their clothes, strewn all across the room, her paintings, now crooked where they hang and if he squints just right, he can see his damp handprint against her wall. Cait's pearl-like skin is flushed pink, red in some areas where he had been overzealous with his teasing and he can't wait to see the gentle bruises bloom.

Marking her as his.

He wonders how many bites and scratches she's inflicted upon him as he makes his way through her apartment while she giggles almost deliriously in his arms. They're happy, sickeningly so, but isn't it what they deserve after so much heartache and longing? 

When he lays her down in bed and crawls in after her, she curls herself around his body, and they whisper secrets and confessions and learn one another anew. It should bother him that he's here with her, in a space she'd once shared with another, but it's all in the past now.

She's chosen him as he's chosen her.

Whatever disasters there are in the world, however difficult it had been to keep ploughing on, day in and day out, all those worries and fears are dulled now, _muted._

He's surrounded by the music of her voice, her laugh, the steady thump of her heart, a symphony he hoped to hear for the rest of eternity. 

"I love you," she whispers, lyrics, a melody.

"I love you," he returns, a harmony;

And between them, something taking root, not yet known. 

Soon, a third heartbeat, to accompany their own.

Completing _their_ song.

  
  
  



End file.
